Mrs. Valentine Hits the Nude Beach

I didn't dally around for long. Soon I was taking his gloriously swollen head into my mouth, sucking on it, swirling my tongue around it within my mouth, all the while fixing his eyes with my gaze, with one hand grasping him loosely at the base of his shaft.

And though I didn't acknowledge them or look to them, I could see the crowd in my peripheries: all of them wanking, pulling on their cocks. All of them hard.

Hard for me.

Fuck but it made me horny. As I drove up and down on my Brett harder, going to town, I could feel my moisture pooling in my sex, dripping down my inner thighs. I opened my legs wide and rose somewhat in my crouching position, displaying my excitement to my admirers; I caught a low moan from one or two of them, knowing for sure they could see the dripping wet state of my cunt.

Having ridden my mouth up and down on Brett's cock for a good couple minutes, I took a break; I reached up one hand to pull on him, to polish and work my saliva into his twitching long rod, and my other hand dropped to my sex to land on my clit, and I shuddered as I swished around on myself, rough and hard. I let my head tip back and my mouth fall open as I slipped two fingers into myself, plunging rough and hard as I fingered my hot, wet, pliant grasping depths...

And then my eyes snapped open to meet Brett's unwavering gaze, as I slipped those two fingers into my mouth, to taste of myself.

Murmurs of heavy, horny approval arose from my crowd; "fuck yes" one of them said.

I grinned shortly, and Brett matched my grin with a knowing look, before I fell to suck on his cock again, working my pussy roughly as I did so.

Time stretched and slowed as I performed for my admirers, kneeling naked and spread-kneed before my Brett, sucking rough and wanton on his long hard cock as I masturbated freely and unabashed. I treated myself to a short look to the left and right, taking in the view of some of my male admirers: all shapes, sizes and ages were there, all of them hard, all of them wanking away at the sight I presented.

Fuck how I loved it. Fuck but I felt powerful, admired, appreciated - wanted, drinking in the look of longing and desire on their faces as they pounded at themselves, imagining themselves in Brett's place, imagining my mouth on their cocks, performing for a crowd as I worked at their pleasure.

Twenty-four hours previously I had never even entertained such a notion: holding court in such a fashion, nude and lewd, sucking cock for any and all to see. But fuck how I loved it. It was such a powerful turn-on.

And not just for me, evidently. Brett, his hands lovingly cradling my head as I worked away at him, gave me the tell-tale tug on my left earlobe to warn me that he was nearly ready to blow. We had settled on this warning system long ago; I always appreciated the forewarning, as sometimes I liked to take his shot in the mouth and drink down his cum, but other times I liked to settle back to a safer distance and wank him to the brink, to watch and see his hot white load jet forth from his cock.

On this day: I leaned back. Not because I didn't want to taste him - I very much did want to taste his hot white salty seed. But today, I wanted even more to put on a show.

A hell of a show.

So I stayed close, positioning myself within the danger zone as Brett's chest heaved, groaning and sighing, telegraphing his excitement to all present as I pulled at his cock with my free hand, pushing him to the brink. And I could see my many admirers were in much the same state: having paced themselves carefully to not blow their load before the payoff, they were now stepping up, getting ready to shoot as Brett shot, maintaining their fantasies.

And shoot his load my Brett did: a long hot white rope of cum jetted from the tip of his cock, landing all over my face.

And I grinned. I almost never took a face shot from my Brett, nor from my husband Mick. Only when I found myself in the hottest, sultriest, sluttiest moods did I ever let my lovers paint my face with their cum; only once in a blue moon would I find myself wanting and needing to feel dirty, to be denigrated, to be cum upon like an object, to be treated like a tool of their service and pleasure.

And that's exactly how I felt in the there-and-now, taking two or three hot shots across my face, over my cheeks and across my lips down to my chin. I settled back a little, and as Brett continued to pump and gasp and cry out his pleasure, his cock shot further loads across my chest, painting my tits, even as I licked up a tendril of cum hanging hotly across my lips.

And as I looked around I saw my crowd cumming, cumming for me, thrusting their hips and shooting their wads into the sand of the dunes as they watched me watching them, as they imagined me kneeling at their feet, imagined me taking their loads across my face and my tits, and as they did so I worked feverishly anew upon my clit and I came, I moaned and I sighed and I ground my hips lewdly back into my hand as I came before my admirers, and I rose up and I latched my mouth upon Brett's cock to take the remainder of his orgasm in my mouth, sucking and drinking up his delicious load even as the contact made him twitch and rise onto his tippy-toes and cry out anew, the intimate pleasure almost too much for him to bear even as he and I and everyone all came, cumming together.

Presently we were spent. Brett, gasping and crying out, had to give me a gentle push on my shoulders to let me know I had taken him too far and I released him, letting his cock slide out of my mouth with a loud 'POP!' and a big, unabashed grin.

Brett simply beheld me with wonder, cupping my face in his hands. I took only a few seconds to wipe up his shots from my face, eating them up greedily.

And he did it, he did the thing: "Good girl," Brett growled, with a grin. And how I loved it.

He said those words only because he knew I loved to hear it. Mick my husband would never denigrate me during sex, I had never asked for it though I secretly yearned for it; and though I similarly had never asked Brett to say such a thing to me, somehow he knew, and it always made me loll with pleasure when he treated me with those words.

I jumped up into his arms, and we kissed. He never cared if my kisses tasted like his cum, we simply kissed, and we ignored our crowd as they sorted themselves out and made their departures without a word - nothing needing saying, the show good and done.

With only one exception.

"Fancy another round?" someone asked, behind me, and as we turned we beheld one straggler: the guy to the left, who we had originally sat near down by the water, the one who had tried to strike up a conversation while I had been at my most bashful. He had not yet brought himself to orgasm; his cock remained hard as he pumped at it slowly, carefully, and the look in his eye was a repulsive mixture of hunger and unwanted, unwarranted expectation.

"No mate," Brett told him, warningly. "That's not what we're here for - just a show, no audience involvement."

"Aw, go on," the guy wheedled. "It seemed like she liked it... why not have another go?"

And as he took a step towards us, my skin crawled and I felt a sudden, cold shiver. Panic gripped me, and I didn't know what to say or do.

Brett saved the day though, of course: he stepped forward, blocking the creep's advance. "I said it once," he told the guy, in unmistakably no-nonsense tones. "Don't make me say it again."

The guy got the message. He stopped where he was, his face twisted into a bitter maw of disappointment; his hand whirred up and down on his cock and he shot his load, a sad little dollop or two trickling down his hand and into the sand before him as though it were an act of defiance, before he turned tail and stormed off.

Brett and I both sighed in relief. I ran around Brett to fall into his protective embrace, even as Brett stayed still, keeping a watchful eye on the creep's retreat. "Thank you," I breathed into his ear.

"I'm sorry, Jamie," he told me. "That sort of thing doesn't usually happen, almost everyone knows the rules. He mustn't be from around here."

"It's okay," I told him. "It's not your fault. Don't let him ruin this for us," I added. "What we did - what you let me do to you, for them," I added, equal parts bashful and unashamedly brazen, "was just about the hottest thing I've ever experienced."

"It was pretty special," Brett had to admit; his face, for those few moments, had taken on a hardness and determination which I had never ever seen in him - and which I had found incredibly, monumentally sexy - but presently that cheeky twinkle was back in his eye. "And you didn't even want to come here!" he added.

"Whatever was I thinking?" I grinned, by way of admitting he was right. "I can't believe it took you so long to convince me to come here. You could have mentioned there was the option of sucking cock for an adoring audience - that would have sweetened the deal immensely."

Brett's jaw hung low, with surprise and amusement. "Oh you torrid little liar!" he declared, making me laugh long and loud. "Never in a million years would you have come anywhere near this place, if you thought I had any expectation of copping a blow-job in front of a crowd!"

"You obviously don't know me as well as you think," I taunted, leading him by the hand as we headed off. "I mean, I did pretty much drag you off into the bushes as soon as you mentioned it..."

Brett considered that. "True," he allowed.

"Who woulda thought I could be such a dirty little hussy?" I grinned, waggling my eyebrows dirtily.

"I had my suspicions..." Brett teased. "You damnable harridan, you."

I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him near, kissing him deeply. We embraced for quite some time, before reluctantly heading back for the car, pausing along the way to re-dress: back into my camel-toeing too-tight bikini bottoms, and only the sheer linen top; Brett happened to 'magically' find my bikini top, stuffed deep down in the bottom of my tote bag by 'persons unknown' - the shithead - but I refused it. And so off we went, back to the car and off into traffic, me with even fewer buttons done up this time as I hoped passers-by and folks in other cars might cop a good eyeful on our way home.

And as we drove in companionable silence, holding hands and looking into each other's eyes from time to time, I reflected on the events of the day. Never mind busting my nude-beach cherry, or my 'sucking cock in front of eight or nine masturbating guys' cherry - a cherry I had never even thought I'd had to bust; there were other things to consider.

The way Brett stood up for me that day: stepping between me and the creepy interloper, strong and confident, heroic and just. I'd never thought myself the type to swoon in such a situation, but damn it had me riled ­- the possessive, protective way in which Brett held me, the absolute dearth of hesitation as he stepped towards potential conflict with another man, all over little old me.

Damn but it had an effect on me. A huge effect. In all the time I had spent with Brett, since Mick and I opened our marriage and we had brought Brett in by agreement, to become my lover, I had looked upon all that Brett was - strong, handsome, confident, cheeky and riling - and I had felt fondness, appreciation and lust towards him; and I had thought myself ever so lucky, to have two wonderful men in my life in Mick and in Brett, who held me in such high esteem.

But now... having seen the way Brett stood up for me, was ready to fight for me, to protect me from the ravages of that awful man, displaying a hard edge which my Mick had never shown in our twenty years together: I felt something new for Brett. Not entirely new; something repressed, something ignored, something I'd long suspected to be lurking in the background but now unable to deny.

I loved him. I loved my Brett. I loved him hard, loved him very much.

Which, as a woman very happily married to another man, was a very big problem.